The Burning Age (Fight For The Crown Book 1)

by L. J Nicholson

  A general murmur of assent greeted his words as the Clemingtons glanced among themselves and discussed their options in muted tones. The hearth fire crackled and popped noisily. Jasper sipped ale from his mug. His mind was already mulling over a strategy for launching his attack on the capital. He would find a way to convince each and every one of his family members… it was his destiny to become King of Clementia.

  “And who will you name Lord or Lady of the North, should you become king?” His cousin Emily called from her seat near the tall double doors. “Next to you, I command the largest army in the North, cousin. I should like to have some return for my investment!” Her dark brown eyes challenged him over the rim of her mug as she sipped her own ale.

  “Lend me your forces, cousin, and you will be well rewarded.” Jasper assured her. “But I should reserve that title for someone who has the bravery to march South at my side.”

  “And do you think I am not brave, because I am a woman?” She arched an eyebrow, never breaking his gaze.

  “I think you are not a warrior.” Jasper said. “What good would you be on the battlefield?”

  “My men will fight twice as hard if they see me at your side,” she pointed out, “and I wield the flame nearly as well as you, Jasper. I’m sure you could find some use for me in claiming the city.”

  “Perhaps, Emily,” he said, “perhaps you are right. I should like to open the question to our family. Is anyone else so motivated to march south with me?” He looked around the room, but no one spoke nor stood. Jasper sneered. “I see. So none of you are brave enough to raise a sword against the Bradburies in the capital. None of you will lift a finger to avenge our fallen Annabelle, or to reclaim our kingdom. But will you send your armies? That is the question I brought you here to answer. Clementia is ours by right, and ours for the taking. But I will need support from all of you in order to win this war.”

  Emily stood up, and paced up to stand beside Jasper. She placed a surprisingly cool hand on his shoulder and smiled out at their family.

  “Between the two of us, Jasper and I command more than half of the armed forces in the North.” She said. “If we march South and fail to achieve victory, the Bradburies will surely come North in search of vengeance… and we will not be here to protect you. Our Lord of the North Jasper sees the truth of these matters. He knows that we must strike a single, decisive blow at the capital, and claim the crown in one swoop. Like a dragon plucking a bull from a field, we will wrest the crown from their hands before they can fully claim it.”

  Jasper pushed back his chair and stood beside her. He could see the expressions on the faces of his family becoming more agreeable. He cleared his throat and placed a palm on his cousin’s arm.

  “Annabelle’s rule was based on peace treaties and accords made with the other houses,” he reminded them. “If we take the capital, it will be by force, and we will no longer be beholden to such agreements. As king, I will be able to award positions of power to whomever I choose. Those of you who offer the largest forces to bolster my numbers will be eligible to become lords and ladies of the East, South, and West. Others will have other honorable positions available to them. No one’s contribution will be forgotten.” He slammed a fist down on the table, the sound echoing dully across the room.

  “Stand now, if you will send your men to march South with me. Stand now, if you wish to see a Clemingtion wearing the gilded crown. Stand now, if you believe in Clementia!”

  The sound of chairs scraping filled the chamber as every man, woman, and youth present stood. Their faces were as hard as stones, and the light of the hearth fire danced in their grim eyes. They were a family at war, and each of them knew it well. None of them knew what the following days, weeks, and months would bring… but the fire raged in all of them.

  Chapter 11

  Archibald Cleaver had donned the finest shirt and trousers he’d brought to the capital in honor of the new king’s coronation. With Koreen on his arm he strode through the halls of the palace. Servants scurried all around them, and other nobles promenaded along the same route, all bound for the throne room at the heart of the great building.

  “So, now that he is being crowned king, am I finally to meet my husband-to-be?” Koreen asked in a hushed tone. She was resplendent in a jeweled gown, blonde hair pulled back in an intricately twisted braid. Archibald chuckled and squeezed her arm affectionately.

  “I know you are curious to meet Aron Bradbury, eldest of my daughters. But I have withheld you from him this long for a reason. Aron is being reborn as king today, and like an infant, he will be extremely impressionable. He will never forget the beautiful southern maiden with golden hair who congratulated him on his ascension. And from those roots, great things may grow.”

  “My father,” Koreen said affectionately as they passed beneath the arched entryway into the throne room. “Always thinking four and five steps ahead. I am most fortunate to have accompanied you to the capital.”

  “Indeed… there is no higher fortune than becoming Queen of Clementia.” Archibald chuckled as he gazed up at the dais at the front of the room. He could already envision Aron sitting there, with Koreen at his side… and he, Archibald, would be next to them, their most trusted royal advisor. From such a position he would have nearly limitless influence, and he would use it well.

  The two Cleavers joined the other nobles in finding seats along the sides of the long room. The buzz of conversation filled the immaculate marble floored space, rising above the chandeliers containing hundreds of covered candles. The drone quieted and then vanished as the royal voice took his place on the dais. The small bald man cleared his throat in the silence and then spoke in his powerful, strident tenor.

  “Let all rise to witness the approach of our new monarch, King Aron Bradbury!” There was a scrape of chairs and a scuffle of clothing as everyone present stood. The doors at the back of the chamber opened and Aron entered, flanked by a foursome of hard-eyed bodyguards. They ascended the dais and Aron knelt next to the voice, while his guards spread out around him.

  “He is handsome, is he not?” Archibald whispered as they took their seats. Koreen gave him a wry smile, but stole an extra glance at the young Bradbury. Archibald smiled. Attraction was not a requirement for marriage, but it did move things along most wonderfully.

  The voice droned on for some time, reciting ancient rites and customs passed down by the rulers of Clementia. Aron answered with all the right words in the right places, and then rose and sat on the great throne previously occupied by his late wife.

  “Have you thought of what you will say to him?” Archibald murmured as the double doors at the front of the room opened. A processions of servants entered, four of them carrying an ornate wooden tray between them, upon which rested the gilded crown. Its gold filigree was formed into many abstract shapes, some of which seemed to be dragons, bulls, eagles, and snakes. It was said the four great houses of Clementia had woven their likenesses into the gilded crown, so that one of them would always wear it.

  “I have,” Koreen murmured back, a small dreamy smile on her face. “I will curtsy deeply and slowly, and congratulate him for becoming king…”

  “Everyone will be doing that.” Archibald pointed out.

  “You did not let me finish,” Koreen said. “I will finish by inviting him, when he finds time, to join me in my chambers. I will tell him of a Southern tradition for honoring a new monarch.”

  “Which tradition is that?”

  “It matters little,” she giggled, “I will make one up. Whatever he desires will transpire. From the look on his face, I think he may just want someone to talk to. He lost his wife so recently, after all.”

  “My young daughter,” Archibald said proudly, “already so shrewd in the ways of men. Your mother has instructed you well.”

  “As have you,” Koreen reminded him. “I am well prepared for what is to come.”

  The servants had carried the crown halfway to the dais when an earsplitting cl
anging penetrated the throne room. They dropped the placard carrying the crown, covering their ears.

  Archibald sprang to his feet at once, hand going to the hilt of his belt knife by instinct. Across the chamber, he saw Abraham Bradbury spring into action. The bull surrounded himself in guardsmen and nobles, giving crisp orders that sent them scurrying in various directions.

  “To your rooms, Koreen.” Archibald said. “At once.”

  “I can fight,” she said, “we are so close… I can be of assistance.”

  “Your assistance is not required.” Archibald admonished, taking his hand off his dagger and putting it on her back. He moved his daughter toward the exit, following the flow of nobles. “Likely the Clemingtons are attacking again. With the combined forces of the other houses within these walls, they stand no chance. You are too important to risk in the fighting.”

  Koreen gave him a venomous look, but she went where she was told with her chin held high. Archibald had only the time to draw a single breath before he heard Abraham Bradbury’s thunderous voice hailing him.

  “Cleaver!” The Lord of the West called. “Get to the bell tower and find out what’s going on. Report back to me here, I’ll be guarding my son. We aren’t leaving the throne room until the threat has been assessed.”

  Archibald nodded and turned, hastening out of the room. The halls were alive with the sound of thundering footsteps, panicked servants, and hustling guardsmen. Cleaver navigated them with grim determination. He had an important task, not to mention his own curiosity to satisfy. How had the Clemingtons managed to rouse another army so quickly? Surely it would have taken more time…

  He stepped outside and froze. He could smell blood on the air. He stood back against the stone wall and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of night. It did not take long. The halls of the palace had only been dimly lit. The alarm bell continued its earsplitting toll. Near a clump of bushes to his left, Archibald spotted two bulky shapes on the ground. He crept closer, right hand on his belt next to his knife.

  It turned out to be two corpses; both guardsmen, both with their throats cut. A pool of growing crimson stained the grass around them. Archibald drew the sword from one of the dead men’s scabbards. He could hear fighting by the main gate, but stole off in the opposite direction, toward the bell tower which continued its panicked peal.

  There was another dead guardsman outside the tower, alongside the bodies of two men in black cloaks. Archibald checked for a pulse on each before proceeding cautiously inside and climbing the winding staircase, sword held forward in one hand. The bell stopped tolling just as he entered the ringing room at the top of the staircase.

  A guardsman in a bloody cloak slumped away from the rope, his life nearly spent. Archibald knelt beside the young man, pressing a wizened hand to the seeping wound beneath his shoulder.

  “Who has done this?” Archibald demanded, his other hand cupping the back of the guardsman’s head so their eyes met. “Who is attacking the city.”

  “Two men… in dark cloaks. I think I recognized one.” The man drew a shuddering gasp. “He served the Fowlers.” With that the man slumped to the ground, unconscious and dying.

  Archibald could not linger to save the man’s life. He needed to get back to the throne room, to warn Bradbury… and then to his daughter, to ensure her safety.

  Chapter 12

  “Hold steady,” Fiona Fowler whispered to the men surrounding her just inside the forest’s fringe. The men passed her words back until all two hundred of them had heard the silent message. Despite the darkness, she could easily make out the capital’s East gate from her position. All around her warriors eased their weapons and loosened their limbs, preparing for the charge to come. Fiona herself dropped into a deep squat and stared into the distance.

  “There,” she muttered as she saw the signal. One of her men on the inside had flung a lit torch over the ramparts. She watched it extinguish as it hit the ground outside the walls. “Move in at half speed, as silently as possible.” She commanded quietly, and again her words were repeated until all ears had heard them. Like a moon shadow the small army crept across the open ground toward the East gate. As they neared the halfway point, the gates began to open outward.

  “Charge!” Fiona roared, throwing all caution to the wind and drawing her longsword. Her followers unsheathed their weapons and broke into a run in rough unison, their voices joining hers in a wordless howl. The alarm bell had finally stopped tolling; that was good, it meant they had some control on the inside. Enough to stop the bell ringing, and enough to open the gates. Fiona’s troops thundered through the open gates and smashed into a battle that was already raging between her infiltrators and the city guard. Blood and bodies decorated the cobblestone street as men fought and died.

  Fiona’s forces spread out in two directions, forming an instinctive pincer that snapped down on the small contingent of guardsmen. They died in short order, six of them on Fiona’s on sword. She never commanded her troops from the rear or the middle of the pack, like some captains. She always led the charge, always looked to bloody her blade before the others. Such bravery lent courage and heart to her men, and as always they fought like demons.

  “My lady!” A voice hailed her, and then she saw him; the young captain she’d sent to lead the infiltrators. She watched a guardsman die on his longsword, and then he flicked the blade clean and darted across the space between them. The fighting was over for the moment; a brief lull before the proper storm began.

  “It seems all went well,” Fiona said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “It would have been better had we not allowed them to sound the alarm,” the captain said, “but we were spread thin, and could not be certain of victory everywhere. Still, the plan has worked.”

  “The plan has not worked until I wear the gilded crown.” Fiona reminded him. “You stay here with the main force. Keep the fighting focused on the gate. I’ll take a dozen of my best fighters and see if we can storm the palace in the confusion. I’ll send word for you to join me as soon as I lay hands on the crown.”

  “As you say, my lady.” The captain saluted and turned to yell orders to his men. They formed up, preparing to defend the gate. Fiona made a signal with her hand, and a pre-selected team of her most experienced and highly trained warriors followed her down a side street. Fiona only visited the capital on occasion, but she had studied maps of it for hours on end, and had no problem leading her team to the palace. They managed to avoid all contact with guards or citizens until they neared the palace’s east wall. A patrol of of six men with spears rounded the corner.

  Before they could defend themselves or even cry out, Fiona’s team descended on them. Her own blade bit through the throat of one man and stabbed another in the heart. The rest fell soundlessly to daggers, their bodies left lying in the street as Fiona gained access to the palace.

  Around the first bend in the hall she found a serving woman cowering beneath a table.

  “You’re coming with me,” she said, grabbing the young woman by the back of her dress. “I don’t remember the turns well enough. Take me to the throne room.”

  The girl’s face was white as snow and she kept her hands pressed over her mouth as though she might be sick, but she nodded and led them down the hall. The palace was strangely deserted in the moment of crisis, until they entered the throne room’s large double doors. Fiona’s fighters spread out across the width of the chamber and advanced slowly at their lady’s heels.

  “Why, Abraham Bradbury,” she said “what a fancy meeting you here.”

  The western lord stood at the front of the dais. He wore armor, and a sword. Behind him a score of guards surrounded the would be king, Aron Bradbury. He sat on the throne with the crown in his hands. So. He did not yet wear it.

  “Fiona Fowler,” Bradbury said. He hopped off the dais, landing heavily on the marble floor. “I should have known better than to accept your assistance in guarding the city.”

  �
��Yes, you should have,” she smiled. She held up a hand and her men stopped advancing. Bradbury came toward her, and she met him halfway. They sized each other up, Fiona tossing her longsword lightly from hand to hand, Abraham all but ignoring the broadsword on his hip.

  “Is it worth it?” He asked, looking down on her. “Tarnishing your honor for a chance to wear the gilded crown?”

  “We shall see,” Fiona tossed her sword in a lazy arc, twirled, and then caught it. “Come on then, you old bull. Tell your men to step forward, and we’ll see if your twenty can best my twelve.”

  “Why don’t we settle this in single combat?” Abraham suggested. “If I lose, my son and my men will surrender to you.”

  Fiona laughed. “No man would be foolish enough to enter into single combat with a western bull,” she said. “But then… I am no man. Come at me, you brute. En garde!”

  She twirled again and thrust her blade low at his abdomen. Abraham pivoted and stepped in, allowing the sword to glance off his armor and trying to grab her in his great arms. Fiona tucked into a ball and rolled away, coming to her feet with a low slash aimed at his ankles. Bradbury picked up a chair and used it to stop the blade. Fiona twirled away and slashed twice more, leaving the chair in pieces, and the bull steaming mad. He charged, and his time her thrust found a groove in his armor. He grunted as blood seeped from the wound. Not enough to kill him, but perhaps enough to slow him down.

  The Lord of the West stepped back and drew his massive broadsword. He wielded it one-handed with ease, and attacked the diminutive woman in a flurry. Finoa’s riposte was so sudden and so clever he nearly lost his balance, staggering away, and she cut him again with a low slash that caught his leg below his armor. Bradbury turned and swung hard enough to cut her in half. Again Fiona tucked and rolled, this time standing with an upward slash that trimmed Bradbury’s beard and left a bloody gash on his face. Sputtering, he staggered backwards and fell heavily.